


Character Snapshot - John

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: John-centric, Lonely John, Pre-Sherlock, a day in the life, character snapshot, things about john
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-28
Updated: 2013-04-28
Packaged: 2017-12-09 20:09:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,519
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/777515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's exactly what the title says, just some things about john. One-shot. His life between getting home and ASIP. A little sad, I guess, but not really angsty... I don't know how to classify this. It's just a character snapshot. some not-at-all-graphic sex, some unrelated but also not-at-all-graphic violence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Character Snapshot - John

John’s arms are red and raw beneath his coat sleeves. His nails are short and ragged, soft from scrubbing at his arms under hot water and the bags under his eyes are dark and permanent. He is tired and strong and hard-working and he is full of compassion for the people who he helps every day. He is patient with panicking patients and he is calm with frightened children. He works hard and gets things done. He is successful and smart; he is good at what he does. He is a constant. A solid, devoted, dependable constant to those around him. He is silently appreciated and the nurse’s sighs of relief when he enters a room are more than enough thanks for the effort he pours into his work at the clinic. He is doing the right thing. He is helping people who need help, he is fixing broken things. John is a capital P Professional.

John wakes up early without an alarm clock, when the sky is still dark blue with a few rare fingers of gold stabbing through the thick clouds, far off over the Thames where you can see the sky between the buildings without craning your neck too much. He pulls on clothes and makes his bed by the light of the bare bulb on the ceiling of the closet. He locks the front door quickly and with an air of finality, as if confidence alone will keep unwelcome people out of his tiny home while he’s out. He limps down the (only one thank god) flight of stairs, waves to the frighteningly small blond person in the ground floor flat, and stops at the cafe on the corner for coffee. He pays in cash from a worn wallet tips whatever the change is. He walks the 3 blocks to work slowly. There’s no rush - he still wakes up on army time and he’s got more time than work at the clinic. He smiles politely at the cleaning crew who are just finishing as he arrives, and goes to his office. Maybe he’ll do some paperwork or read a book or look for a flatmate or a second job. Maybe he’ll fall asleep again and Sarah will wake him up when she arrives an hour later. Maybe he’ll unlock his revolver from the bottom drawer and point it at his head and blow his brains all over the wall behind him from sheer boredom. Maybe he’ll write a blog post like his therapist told him to. John is out of place.

John likes the clinic he works at. It’s small, it’s clean, the people are nice and it pays just enough to get by on in London when combined with his army pension. The work is not worth mentioning. It’s a private clinic, someone else’s dream come true, solid proof that they do in fact come true when you throw enough money at them. It’s clean and white and new and everything about the inside screams _expensively renovated._ Sarah’s job is the sit at the front desk and make sure the patients don’t kill each other. Her job description also includes copious amounts of filing and paperwork, but John is bored often enough that he takes care of all his own and some other people’s too. Sometimes John goes home with her and they have very casual, very vanilla sex and he sleeps alone in the guest bedroom. He makes eggs for himself in her kitchen the next morning and is gone before she wakes up, leaving his clean dishes to dry beside the sink. It doesn’t change anything when they see each other 4 hours later at work, and John doesn’t see much difference between sex with Sarah and masturbating, except that Sarah is noisier than his hand and he has to use a condom. John is very lonely.

John has a P.O. box in his building. He checks it three times per week, and he doesn’t get much mail. He’s been back for 3 months and it doesn’t get easier. Some of his friends from the army were returned at the same time he was or soon after, and they call every few days, wondering if he wants to watch a footie game or get a pint or go to a club or double date or possibly enter a mutual suicide pact and jump off the London Eye with them. Okay, that last one is a lie, but he’d prefer it to any of their suggestions. The calls slowed down after he changed his number and moved into a different flat, but his unit’s comms specialist tracked him down and now he turns off his phone unless he’s waiting for someone important to call. He’s still a bit creeped out that Mike found him that easily, but he let it drop. Sometimes he thinks about a family and a house and a bigger job and a smaller city and a wife who wears aprons and children who go to school somewhere. He prefers his nightmares. John is more frightened by suburbia than by bullets.

John listens to all his messages. He checks them right before bed. He has a pillow tied to the closet door so that he can throw his expensive phone across the room without worrying about it breaking, as long as he’s got good aim. Most messages are usually from his old army mates, and these he deletes without thought or apology. Some are from his mother. These he deletes with awkward regret. Some are from Harry. These are rare, hesitant and awkward, but he always calls her back immediately. They have short, stilted conversations about nothing until one of them breaks down and invites the other somewhere for lunch. The invitation is always accepted and followed by a long, emotional lunch at a cheap but excellent restaurant which changes each time. They tell each other everything and the concepts of shame, regret and apology are foreign to their relationship. All is forgiven before it is confessed. John was the stronger and braver of the two during their childhood and well into their teens. He was always the one to stand up for Harry and himself, and he took the worst of the blows. Now that he’s returned from war, Harry’s doing her level best to be there for him. They both know he’s a mess. John can’t help feeling that he got the better end of this deal, punches and all.

John met a girl on the flight home. He was still in uniform, with a backpack and a suitcase in the overhead compartment. He was on his way home and his life shifted in flight. He was still shell-shocked, shoulder sore from recent surgery and nearly hyperventilating in the window seat, watching the ground fall away. Her name was Mary, and she was frighteningly, violently sweet. She wore a pale pink dress with a straight, high neckline and short hem and impractical electric blue heels, and her breasts made John nervous. They were large and soft and seemed to move inexorably closer, like tsunamis or tanks or impending doom. They talked about colors and food and all the nice things John would have when he returned to London. She said he was nice and asked if he’d like to get dinner with her sometime. He said yes, that would be lovely. They met again, a week later in a glittering restaurant somewhere in London and she wore a different dress; a dark, dark red one with an asymmetrical neckline and a tapered skirt that didn’t quite hit her knees. Her heels were silver and sharper than the steak knives beside their plates. John wore a suit that she said made him look edible, with thin lapels and no tie. They ate slowly and eventually went back to her house. They had some fairly excellent sex in her terrifyingly large bed, and they took a quick shower together before falling asleep curled around each other, pressed against her headboard in a nest of carnivorous pillows. Three hours later, he woke up panting and covered in sweat and something sticky that felt a lot like blood, and Mary was sobbing against the wall, pressed against the closet wall, clutching half a torn sheet to her bare chest. He sat up slowly, completely stunned. He reached over to turn on the lamp beside the bed, and had to climb out of bed to pick it up from where it had fallen. In its soft light he saw there were bruises rapidly darkening on her ribs and thighs, and his arm was bleeding profusely. These were the first of his nightmares and, as you could imagine, he apologized profusely, left, and they did not see each other again. He’s met several nice girls since then, at work and in the pub he goes to when he’s overwhelmed by his own inadequacy, but he never spends more than a few hours with them and never stays the night, however nice they are. John sleeps alone.

He thinks there must be worse fates.

**Author's Note:**

> got thoughts? you know how to leave a comment, please do!


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